


Idiots in Love

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 14:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Aaaand we're back to scenes from Sherlock and Molly's engagement, this time with three short stories from Greg Lestrade's pov. As he said inGravitas...The satisfaction of watching the live-action post-Sherrinford sitcom, 'Idiots in Love', had been a private delight for months...Written for the final day of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018, Theme:Writer's Choice





	Idiots in Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellis_Hendricks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/gifts).



> With many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for beta reading the first part. I hope you like the rest just as much!
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** Domestic Bliss **

 

For all his curiosity -- and sympathy, too, of course -- Greg had refrained from contacting Sherlock for a good six days after the Sherrinford/Musgrave affair, but on the seventh he absolutely needed Sherlock’s sharp wits for a tricky case, so he pulled out his mobile and, after only a moment’s hesitation, texted him. 

No reply. 

Which was unusual. Even if Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to come out to a crime scene, he was almost always willing to provide input via text message or even Skype, if the situation warranted it. And as for answering, Greg sometimes thought that mobile was bloody attached to his hand, he was that quick. 

Greg tried texting a couple more times, with the same result, and then he found he was really starting to get worried. 

So he sent one off to Sherlock’s brother. There’d probably been quite the blow-up with the Holmes mum and dad, what with them not having known their daughter was still alive. Maybe the boys were still in the midst of smoothing things down in that quarter. 

But Mycroft replied almost immediately. 

 

 **Sherlock is fine, as far as I know. He is with Dr. Hooper. - M**  

 

Greg nodded (as though Mycroft could see him -- ha!) and texted back his thanks. 

He’d known, of course, that Sherlock was staying with Molly, since 221B Baker St. was a bit too blown up for habitation, and he’d heard it from John, too, when he’d run across him walking little Rosie in Regent’s Park. 

“Yeah, Molly’s taken him in,” John had said, with a crooked smile, which Greg had taken to be relief that he didn’t have to put up with a possibly unstable houseguest after… well, everything. John had been through a lot in the last six months. Or six _years_ , more like. 

“They’re okay, then?” Greg had smiled, remembering how worried Molly had been after that phone call, and then Sherlock’s reaction to hearing that she’d begged to be included when Greg had been summoned to Musgrave. “I was hoping they would be. Now if Sherlock’ll just refrain from bein’ a git for a while…” 

John had laughed. “I think he’s working on that. And Molly’ll keep him right.” 

That was no more than the truth. If anyone could make Sherlock behave, it was Molly Hooper. 

And apparently they were sorting it out, since Sherlock was still there in her flat. 

He tried texting Molly, then, but though she, too, was usually quick to reply, there was, again, no answer. He frowned. 

It wouldn’t hurt to go over there and check things out. When Sherlock was involved, you just never knew what might be happening. 

 

* 

 

A few minutes later, Greg was on the brick walkway and approaching Molly’s door when it opened and Sherlock stepped out -- but not a Sherlock Greg had ever seen -- or not in public at any rate. Molly’s street was a quiet one, of course, but Sherlock’s state -- dressing gown negligently tied over what Greg strongly suspected was precisely nothing, dark curls styled _a la bed-head_ , and a somewhat glazed and strangely contented expression -- was as near to indecent as made no odds. 

And it was bloody one in the afternoon! 

And he was holding, with tender care, a puppy. 

Greg halted on the walkway and gaped. Sherlock, for his part, jerked his head up suddenly, eyes widening, and his contentment taking on more of a deer-in-the-headlights look. 

“Greg! What are you doing here?” he blurted. 

Greg, beginning to be amused, quirked a brow. “I’ve got a case, and I tried to text you but you didn’t reply. What’s that you’ve got there? A bloodhound?” 

Sherlock’s consternation faded to fondness as he looked at the pup, who was trying to lick his hand. “Basset Hound,” he corrected. “Here, Cal, time to take care of business.” He set the pup down on the grass, just off the front porch, and the little dog immediately began to sniff around with intent. Sherlock straightened, smiling at his new protégé. 

But just when the pup had settled to his “business”, a bit of white fluff dashed out the door and, as it passed, Sherlock uttered a cry of dismay and gave chase, onto the grass and along the flower bed next to the house. The pup joined in with a tiny, delighted bay, and Greg watched open-mouthed as Sherlock cornered the bit of fluff, which turned out to be a rather posh-looking kitten. Sherlock then caught both the animals up, one in each hand. 

“Bad Hobbes!” Sherlock scolded the kitten, and then noticed that the sash of his dressing gown had loosened somewhat in the chase. 

Yep. Precisely nothing on underneath. 

“Bloody hell!” Sherlock muttered, with a glance at Greg. But with his hands full of pup and kitten he was unable to remedy the situation and finally growled, “Just come inside, will you?” 

“Happy to,” Greg told him. This was becoming more amusing by the minute. 

Greg followed the comic trio into the flat, then closed the door as Sherlock bent down to carefully set his new pets on the tile floor. They bounded off to roughhouse while the detective straightened and adjusted his dressing gown, pulling the sash tight, rather firmly, before turning back to face Greg. 

“So. You have a case?” Sherlock asked, briskly, looking down his nose at Greg, obviously wishing to put the whole of the previous awkwardness aside. 

Greg subdued his smirk and began, “Yes, I’ve--” 

“Sherlock, Hobbes didn’t escape did he? He’s not-- _oh!_ ” 

It was Molly who’d interrupted, coming down the stairs, a note of concern in her voice, until she suddenly noticed Greg standing there. Greg felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen, but really, how could he help it? If Sherlock’s fashion statement had been startling, it was nothing to this one of Molly’s. She was wearing a very skimpy garment of some sheer material, white with a delicate blue flower pattern, edged with lace and fastened at the sides with blue satin ribbons. And, again, _nothing else_. Greg had only seen her out of her loose-fitting work attire that once, at that unfortunate Christmas party in Baker Street, and that was years ago, now. Really, he would have been less than human if he hadn’t stared at the vision before him (and it was certainly worth staring at, he had to give her that). 

But he didn’t have long, for she gave a kind of horrified _Eeep!_ and turned to scurry back up the steps and out of sight. 

Sherlock cleared his throat in a somewhat pointed manner. Greg turned to him, feeling a bit sheepish. 

But Sherlock apparently didn’t know quite what to say, either, for a moment -- which was a first. He was also turning rather pink. Greg was hard put not to burst out laughing. Presently, however, Sherlock did pull himself together, and said, coldly, “I trust I may rely upon your discretion?” 

Greg fought down his grin and said, “Yeah, of course you can. Won’t tell a soul.” 

Sherlock gave a small sigh and un-pokered somewhat. 

And then light footsteps were heard, coming down the steps. 

It was Molly, again, now decently swathed in a long, blue satin dressing gown. 

“Greg!” she said, smiling, if somewhat pink-cheeked herself. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah! Apparently things are just _fine_ ,” he replied, still carefully not grinning. 

Molly blushed rather pinker, but said, “We… ah… Sherlock is still recovering from… ah… everything.” 

Greg nodded and said, with what he knew to be admirable gravity, “It’s good of you to help the lad.” 

But even Molly couldn’t help giving a tiny snort of laughter at this, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, completely done with it. “For God’s sake, he’s here on a case, Molly!” 

“Are you?” she asked, brows rising. 

“Well, yes,” said Greg. “Can’t do without the world’s only consulting detective for too long, now, can I?” He subdued his mirth and dug out his mobile. “Here, both of you take a look and tell me what you think.” 

They did take a look -- Greg had brought some pictures, and he gave them a brief verbal rundown of the details. 

And then they argued about what they were looking at for about five minutes. 

Greg listened to the give and take of the conversation with interest. Sherlock wasn’t affording her any slack, but Molly held her own, and in the end Sherlock was nodding at a couple of the points she’d brought up, and they finally came to a consensus. 

“There you go,” Sherlock said at last, handing the phone back to Greg. “Is that all you wanted? Good. Let me see you out.” 

“Not going to offer me some tea or anything?” Greg managed to look hurt for about three seconds, but then desisted as Sherlock began to grind his teeth. “Alright, Romeo, I know when I’m not wanted.” 

“Romeo? _Romeo?!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, outraged. “Romeo was an i _diot!_ ” 

Molly began to giggle helplessly, and Greg said, “Ah! But we’re all idiots in love, aren’t we?” 

“No, we are _not_ ,” Sherlock snapped, his feathers thoroughly ruffled. “Now get out! I’ll contact you tomorrow. Or next week -- if you’re lucky.” 

He opened the front door and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, encouraged Greg to leave. 

Greg said to Molly, “I’ll bid you a very good afternoon, then, Dr. Hooper.” 

“Thank you, Greg,” she said, smiling. 

He considered saying, _Cheers, mate!_ to Sherlock but it seemed unwise to goad the lad further. Sherlock refrained from speech as well, though he did slam the door when Greg had barely stepped out onto the front porch. 

But then the sound of Molly’s unbridled laughter could be heard, and Sherlock’s voice, saying something sharpish, after which there was a bit of combined laughter and shrieking until it all faded into the distance -- up the stairs and into the bedroom again, no doubt. 

Greg could finally let loose, grinning and chuckling in delight as he made his way to the car, got in, started it, and set off down the road. Lord! What wouldn’t he give to tell someone of this miraculous, unprecedented turnaround. 

Sally Donovan would never believe it. 

And as for Anderson, well, there’d be no living with him, for obviously he’d been right about the pair of them all along.   

 

**o-o-o**

 

** Contrition **

 

About a month later, Greg asked Sherlock to come out with him on a truly baffling case, “sure to be at least an eight on the Sherlock scale of interest.” 

“Hmm. I doubt it,” had said the consulting git, but in a strangely subdued manner. Still, he added, “Alright, come pick me up in half an hour.” 

Greg was, to put it mildly, taken aback. “Pick you up? You want to ride with me? In my car?” Sherlock never rode in a police car, if he could help it, even an unmarked vehicle. Greg had known him a long time and quite understood. The road to the current Sherlockian state of sobriety and domestic bliss had been long and bumpy indeed. 

But all Sherlock said now was, “Yes, why not? Problem?” 

“No!” Greg exclaimed. “See you at noon, then.” 

“Make it twelve fifteen,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “I need to shower.” 

Greg’s brows rose. “I’m not interrupting something again, am I?” 

“No, not at all. Molly had the early shift, left at some ungodly hour.” 

“Ah. OK. Good. Twelve fifteen then.” 

The weirdness continued. Sherlock was ready on time, gave Greg a perfunctory nod, and got in the car, but was far from his usual self. He seemed strangely quiet, almost preoccupied. _Unhappily_ preoccupied. 

 _Trouble in paradise?_ Greg thought, but he said nothing about that. After they’d gone a few blocks he pointed out that there was a folder of pertinent evidence sitting on the dashboard. “If you’d care to take a look.” 

“Oh, yes. Sorry,” Sherlock said, and reached for the folder. 

 _‘Sorry’! Good God…_  

Greg kept glancing over at him as he leafed through the notes and photographs. It didn’t take him long, and before more than a couple of minutes had passed the folder was closed on his lap and he was staring out the side window again. The phrase _in a brown study_ popped into Greg’s head. 

“Well, what do you think?” he finally prodded. 

Sherlock gave a sort of shrug, and continued looking out the window, frowning, though he did offer, “Probably a five, and the brother-in-law did it, but I’ll be more certain when we get there.” 

Greg shook his head, exasperated. Of course “truly baffling” would be child’s play for Sherlock -- and he wasn’t even giving it his full attention. 

There was something going on. 

But it would have to wait. 

They arrived at the scene a few minutes later and Sherlock perked up a bit. “Maybe a seven after all,” he muttered, looking about him. He pulled out his little magnifying lens and went at it. 

The crime scene was an old house in Camden that had seen better days, quite dilapidated, with overgrown shrubbery that included roses and lots of them. After a few minutes, Greg noticed that Sherlock seemed more interested in these flowers than in the evidence to hand. 

“Oi, what are you doing? Got anything yet?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied, and in his usual style he rattled off a detailed summary of the many reasons it was obvious the brother-in-law had, indeed, done it.  But then, when he was finished, he added, “Now, what kind of roses do you think these are? These yellow ones.” 

Greg stared at him, then snapped, “How should I know? And what difference does it make?” 

Sherlock stiffened at the admonitory tone, then said, “Right. I’ll be in the car.” 

As he stalked away, Greg determined that he was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, far more baffling than the case of the murderous brother-in-law had been (apparently). 

He passed on Sherlock’s analysis of the case to his colleagues, who exclaimed over the clarity and perception of it. 

“Yeah, well, he’s good,” said Greg, “as we should all know by now. But he’s a bit off today, so I’ll let you blokes dot the i’s and cross the t’s while I take him home.” 

Various expressions of sympathy followed, and requests that Sherlock be given their best. 

“I will,” Greg said, trying to smile, then bade them adieu and headed out to the car. 

He slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door, but did not start the motor. Instead he turned toward Sherlock and said, “Alright, what’s going on? Have you been up to your old tricks with Molly? ‘Cause I tell you to your head, if you start bein’ a bastard to her again--” 

“I haven’t!” Sherlock protested, but then added, “I mean… not _lately_.” 

Greg lifted a brow. “So it’s something from the past? It isn’t like her to hold a grudge--” 

“She’s not.” Sherlock looked away for a moment, then pulled himself together and faced Greg manfully. “If you must know, she found out last night that I _did_ remember her from university, though I’d pretended not to. That first time we first saw her at Bart’s. You remember. The Johnstone case.” 

Greg stared, recalling the occasion clearly for all it was ages ago. He almost blurted out, _Why?!?_ , but stopped himself, and frowned. And glared a bit at Sherlock, too, because he knew _exactly_ Why. So instead he asked, “How’d she find out?”  

“We met a… a mutual acquaintance. Last night, at a restaurant. _He_ was a bastard, in our days at Oxford. We were all at a party, one of those all-out end-of-term things, and he lured Molly away and would’ve… well. He didn’t. I didn’t let him.” 

“My God! Rape?” Greg exclaimed, horrified even at this late date. 

“Yes. Possibly. He was big, a rugby player, team captain or something, and very drunk. She’d had too much herself -- he’d seen to that. And she was… small. Barely more than a child, really, thinking back on it. In her first year, and I was a teacher’s assistant in her organic chemistry class.” 

“I see,” said Greg, slowly, picturing how it must have been. “I suppose she was in love with you even then?” 

“Noooo!” Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes. “How could she when she didn’t _know_ me at all?” 

Greg gave a humorless laugh. What Sherlock didn’t know about women -- women of all ages -- could fill a book. And if the git hadn’t been a young Adonis -- or something even more interesting -- Greg would eat that bloody deerstalker of his. 

“So. You already knew she was smart, and you _used_ her schoolgirl crush. For years. Lord, no wonder she’s furious!” 

“Yes, she was,” Sherlock said, looking worried. “She’s not, now. Or she _says_ she’s not. But… I’m afraid…” 

“I’d be afraid, too,” Greg agreed. 

Sherlock said, firmly, “I have to do something more than apologize. Will you take me by a florist’s shop? I thought--” 

“Yellow roses!” Greg smiled. “That’s a good start.” 

For the first time that day a bit of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. “Do you really think so?” 

Greg laughed. “I think you’ll be years making this up to her, but yeah, a dozen or two of roses, and maybe some chocolates, to start with. To go along with the groveling you’ll have to do -- because you know you will, right?” 

The smile faded, but instead of pokering up, he just looked crestfallen. “Yes. I expect so. Let’s go, then.”

 

*

 

It was nearing six o’clock on that warm, late-spring evening when Molly walked out her kitchen door and into the back garden, took in the scene before her, and cried, “What are you _doing?!!_ ” 

Greg straightened up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and Sherlock, his Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt sweat stained and coming loose from his trousers, gaped at her. 

“I thought you were going for drinks with Meena!” Sherlock said, almost resentfully. 

“I was,” Molly said, “but I begged off at the last minute.” She came down the steps and crossed the patch of lawn to where they stood, shovels in hand, hard by the garden wall, an enormous hole between them -- but not enormous enough for the monstrous tub of espaliered yellow rose bush that sat off to one side, flanked by a huge (and very heavy) bag of soil amendment, and a much smaller container of something called Miracle-Gro for Roses. “Sherlock, what _is_ all this?” 

“I… I bought you roses, Molly,” Sherlock said, with rather less than his usual confidence. 

She stared at the plant, which was really a very pretty thing, if a bit out-sized. 

Greg said, “He looked at some cut roses, but didn’t like the idea that they’d just wilt in a few days. The florist suggested this garden center out in Battersea, nice selection, but Sherlock had to get the biggest one they had, of course. What with the size of it, and then the traffic to and from, it was a real project just getting it here.” 

Sherlock winced a bit. “I thought we’d be able to get it planted before you got home. I wanted to surprise you.” 

Molly looked at Sherlock, and then the rosebush again, and then the whole scene. And then back at Sherlock. She said, carefully not laughing, “You did.” 

Greg sighed in weariness and relief, as she came forward, Sherlock let his shovel fall, and they embraced and kissed. At length. With such affecting tenderness that Greg finally had to turn away, shaking his head. 

Finally Greg heard Molly say, huskily, “We can finish this tomorrow. Come inside.” 

“I love you, Molly,” came Sherlock’s soft voice. 

“I know. I love you, too,” she said, definitely teary now, and kissed him again, very gently. Then she cleared her throat and looked over at Greg. “Would you like to come in for a drink?” 

Greg laughed. “No thanks. I’ll just go on home, if you’re going to give up the gardening for tonight. Let me know if you need help with it tomorrow, though, eh?” 

“We will,” Molly said, with a somewhat tremulous smile. 

“I’ll text you,” said Sherlock. He came over and held out his hand, and when Greg took it in a firm grip Sherlock said, “And thank you, Greg. For everything.” 

Greg gave him a grin and said, quite sincerely, “My pleasure, mate. Any time.”      

 

**o-o-o**

 

  **The Graveyard Shift**

 

Here it was, two weeks before the wedding, and the level of discomfort in the morgue was such that Greg was tempted to knock Sherlock and Molly’s heads together and shout, _Snap out of it!_ Molly had been all business since they’d arrived, and Sherlock seemed to have reverted to his previous mode of existence, causing her to go pale, then pink with anger by turns. She wasn’t just rolling over for him anymore, though. He was smart, but she was, too, and their sniping about the details surrounding the death of Mortimer Revesby, laid out before them on the slab, was almost too fast and furious to follow. 

What the devil had got into them? Greg wondered, so distracted by their antics that he almost missed that they’d come to a consensus on Revesby and Sherlock was now insisting that they all go off to the canteen for a cuppa, though there wouldn’t be much sustenance available since it was the middle of the graveyard shift. 

“Very well,” Molly finally said, rather coldly. “I’ll meet you up there.” 

Sherlock threw up his hands with a sound of disgust and headed for the door. 

Greg hovered, uncertain, but Molly said, “Well, go on. I’ll be there in five minutes.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Greg, humbly, and was relieved to see her lip quiver against a smile. 

He caught up with a stormy-looking Sherlock, joining him in the lift as he poked abusively at the button for the first floor. 

“Sherlock…” Greg began as the doors closed. 

“What?” Sherlock glared. 

Greg lifted a brow. “You know you’re marrying her in two weeks, right?” 

Some of Sherlock’s stiffness seemed to abate. “I… it must look odd to you…” 

“It looks _very_ odd. I mean, considering.” Greg thought of these last six months, the obvious love between them, their tender regard for one another. 

Sherlock said, “She’s been… a trifle under the weather. Off her feed, so to speak. I specifically didn’t want her working any more graveyard shifts, and then she insisted she had to take this one, fill in for that dolt Sachdev so he could fly off to India for some family gathering. Or for Mike Stamford, really, since he’d agreed to take Sachdev’s shifts but couldn’t tonight, had tickets to take the family to some musical and couldn’t be here in time. But that’s Molly for you. Always letting people take advantage.” 

Greg refrained from saying, _Yeah, and who’s the worst offender in that category, eh?_, but Sherlock must’ve seen he was thinking it for he flushed and looked away, momentarily disconcerted. 

The doors opened then and they made their way out and down the hall to the canteen, nice and quiet in the wee hours. There was a small selection of cold comestibles, and drinks of all sorts. Greg picked up a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee for himself, and Sherlock got teas (one of them decaffeinated, Greg noticed), and a likely dish of tapioca pudding with a dab of whipped cream for Molly (“She likes this pap. God knows why.”) 

They sat down at one of the many empty tables, and Sherlock put one packet of sugar in Molly’s tea (the decaf) and three in his own. Then he sat there, sipping and brooding, and making desultory replies to Greg’s attempts at small talk, until finally Molly came in, about five minutes later. 

She pursed her lips, but her eyes were softer than they’d been downstairs as she looked at her maddening fiancé. Greg noticed that she did look a bit pale, tired maybe. Sherlock might be right… there was something strange about the whole situation... and the wedding moved forward so suddenly, too, and the odd excuse Sherlock had presented for doing so when Greg had verbally RSVP’d to him the previous week… 

Sherlock stood up and pulled out a chair for Molly, and Greg was relieved to see that their eyes were soft on one another, now. Maybe the little storm was blowing over… 

But then, as Sherlock sat down again, Molly looked for the first time at the dish of tapioca. An odd, very uncomfortable expression swept over her face and she suddenly went dead white. 

“Molly?” Sherlock said sharply, sitting up very straight. 

Molly glanced up at him, said, rather muffled, “Have to use the loo,” and was up and out of the room like a shot. 

Pursued by an obviously panicked Sherlock. 

And of course Greg had to leap up and chase after them as well. 

He was down the hall in time to see Molly disappear into the loo, and it was evident that Sherlock was going to follow her right into the ladies’. 

“Sherlock!” Greg half-shouted, in a sort of nebulous warning, but he was ignored and Sherlock pushed his way inside. 

A female shriek that was not Molly’s sounded, then Sherlock’s scathing reply of “Get _OUT!_ ” was heard. 

As Greg came up to the door, the shrieker emerged, an older woman, red faced and blazing mad. “This is outrageous! Where is the manager!” she demanded, but continued on down the hall without waiting for any reply from Greg. 

Greg frowned after the woman, and hesitated, hearing some vague sounds from inside the loo that might have been retching, and Sherlock speaking in deep, soothing tones. He decided that it would be the better part of valor to just stay outside for a bit, guarding the door from intruders. 

Presently, however, all was quiet again. There was no sign of anyone coming to roust out any trespassing males of the species. And finally Greg left his post and shoved his way inside, to make sure everyone was still alive. 

He found them in one of the stalls, Sherlock seated on the toilet with a drooping Molly in his lap, her hand crushing the life out of his coat lapel while she softly wept into the opposite shoulder of it. Sherlock’s cheek was laid against her hair, and he was murmuring something, his arms tight around her. 

Greg felt more than a little awkward, interrupting them, but he cleared his throat and said, “Everything OK? You… ah… need anything?” 

Molly sat up, tear-streaked and sniffling, and Sherlock got a long strip off the loo roll and handed it to her. While she dried her tears and blew her nose, he said to Greg, “She’s going home. I’ve already texted Mike.” 

“But I’ll be on call,” Molly said to Sherlock, with gentle insistence. 

“Yes, very well,” Sherlock said, in the interest of détente. “And I’ll come with you if you have to return tonight. But _no more_ , for _all_ our sakes. Er… I mean _both_.” Sherlock glanced furtively at Greg. “Her’s and mine.” 

Greg gave him a crooked smile. “And junior’s?” 

Molly gave a watery chuckle and laid her head against Sherlock’s shoulder again, closing her eyes for a moment. 

But Sherlock flushed, hesitated, then said, stiffly, “We don’t want it generally known as yet.” 

Greg was grinning, now. “So that’s why the wedding’s in the dead of winter. I was wondering if that might be it. How far along?” 

“Just six weeks,” said Sherlock, sounding a bit worried. 

“But I’m fine!” Molly said, sitting up again, and looking at Greg for the first time. “It’s just a little nausea. Morning sickness, you know, because of the hormonal changes. Though unfortunately it’s not just in the morning, in spite of the name. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at tapioca pudding again for a while -- and I didn’t even get to eat any!” 

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll make you some dry toast when we get home.” 

“Yes,” said Molly. “I think I’d like that.” 

They got up, then, and when Molly went over to the sink and mirror to address the ravages (which really were very minor -- there was some color back in her cheeks and a glow of peace in her expression), Sherlock straightened his slightly crumpled and tear-stained coat and, indeed, his whole person, and said to Greg, “I… uh… _once again_ , I trust we can rely on your discretion?” 

Greg chuckled to see him like this, so worried, and so proud, all at the same time. 

How far he’d come. How far they’d all come. 

So he said, “Of course you can. Molly Hooper isn’t the only one who can keep a secret now, is she?” And he gave the young git a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

 

~.~

 

 


End file.
